


Head Over Heels

by Solstarin



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 09:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12956283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solstarin/pseuds/Solstarin
Summary: (literally)





	Head Over Heels

**Author's Note:**

> Day 8!

Y/N sighed as she watched Natasha waltz by the glass walls of her office, effortlessly balancing a stack of papers and a coffee cup in one hand, and a laptop in the other, her heels clicking on the marble floor. It was almost physically painful to watch her move so gracefully, even when she was just… carrying paperwork. Y/N wouldn’t have made it to standing in those shoes before that coffee cup would have been everywhere and the laptop shattered.

“Geez, Y/N,” came a new voice, “can you look any more pathetic?”

Y/N snapped herself out of her longing trance and turned her head to see Tony Stark in her entryway with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, considering her with some measure of disdain. She straightened her posture and cleared her throat.

“Sitting there pining, like some besotted teenager,” he continued. “It’s a humiliating image for the Avengers.”  

Y/N had been the Avengers’ PR intern for a little over three months, but she still got starstruck when any of them spoke to her casually. “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I’ll keep my… pining under wraps.”

The billionaire sighed and sank into the plush chair before her desk, scooting it forward until he could prop his feet up on her desk and eyeball her. Y/N blinked, having fully expected him to make his comment and then move on. She readjusted her blouse and shifted in her chair, slightly uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Any reason why you’re hot for Natasha, instead of, say, me? Or Thor? I can hardly go outside without wrestling through a crowd of god-hungry women.”

Y/N didn’t have an answer. Because… she was so _everything Y/N wasn’t?_ Natasha was tall, lean, beautiful, coordinated; that kind of angelic that looked subtly but definitely threatening. She could do (and had done) Y/N’s job better than her, before she showed up. She could charm her way out of an execution, and honestly, Y/N would be more surprised if she hadn’t already.

She opened her mouth to answer, but all that came of the effort was a strangled whine.

“Jesus Christ. I’m going to have to check your files again, I’m not sure if you’re not really sixteen.”

Y/N hoped the burning on her cheeks wasn’t as visible as she feared. “Mr. Stark, I hardly think discussing my - _ahem_ \- personal affec- personal matters is appropriate–”

She was cut off with the wave of a hand. Tony set down his coffee on her desk and leaned forward to capture her attention. “Listen, Y/N, I was sixteen once, too. The only thing that’ll stop your helpless longing is to get an answer. I’m sure there’s something you’re good at that’ll get her attention.”

Y/N’s brow creased. “…Are you here to help me?”

Tony stood, retrieving his mug. “Of course not. We hired you because you are the person with the people knowledge. I’m sure you can figure out how to get her to notice you.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving her to ponder. The first thing that usually got people’s attention was her gangly lack of coordination. She and Natasha weren’t on nearly good enough terms to have a regular lunch schedule, and Y/N could only justify so many mock interviews, especially since Natasha needed the least policing when it came to keeping up a public image.

There wasn’t anything that would _impress_ her, either. She could… tie her shoes in three seconds? That wasn’t very jaw-dropping. Besides, if there was anyone on this Earth the least likely to be impressed by pretty much anything, it was a drop-dead-gorgeous _super spy_.

The only thing that Y/N was even really remotely skilled at was falling over her own two feet.

…That could work.

~

For the next couple of weeks, she used every excuse she could to get herself near the Russian, and let her legs take the lead. They didn’t need much convincing, and she _happened_ to trip over an unruly rug in the common area, up an uneven stair, and get her heel caught in the elevator slats. Each time, Natasha’s lightning-fast reflexes saved her, and Y/N relished the couple of seconds they were touching as she righted herself. Each time, she apologized profusely, and each time, she got a gentle smile and reassurance that all was fine.

Life around them continued. One of Tony’s friends (she used that term loosely) was holding a banquet in celebration of the recent victories against the city’s threats- as the team responsible, the Avengers were invited as guests of honor. (Y/N didn’t know _why_ he needed to throw such a huge shebang for no apparent reason, but how was she supposed to know what wealthy people occupied their time with? She got free food, and, more importantly, free alcohol out of it, so what did it matter?) Y/N already followed the team to every social gathering they attended, so she was handed a hundred bucks to “find something that doesn’t look like you’re a millennial” and an invitation. _Someone_ needed to make sure Tony wasn’t spilling S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets into his margaritas.

Natasha arrived slightly after her, and encountered her lingering at the steps of the grand mansion, clicking absently on her phone and waiting on Tony to show up.

“Y/N,” the Russian beckoned. Y/N started, having believed she was the last to arrive before their billionaire. She was clad in a deep hunter green dress, slinky around the shoulders and slim around her waist, silhouetting her long, slender legs. Her red hair had lightened over the last couple of months, and it shone silvery in the moonlight, along with the star-sparkles of the jewelry at her throat.

“Black Widow,” she returned, hoping her voice didn’t sound as choked as it felt. It was like she was looking at beauty beyond reality, something more realistically painted by the hands of someone in the Renaissance than here in the flesh.

“What are you doing out here?”

Y/N scowled at her phone. “Mr. Stark is the one who needs watching, but he isn’t answering my phone calls. I’ve been waiting for him.”

A radiant smile took Natasha’s lips. “Tony left the Tower two hours ago. I’ll bet you he’s already half a dozen cocktails in, by now. Come on, we’ll find him.”

Y/N turned to the stairs and frowned, considering the daunting set of steps and regretting trying to wear heels. “I should have worn different shoes. I’ll break my ankles before getting to the top.”

A gentle hand gripped her elbow, and blue-green eyes sparkled at her from that painting-face.

“Don’t worry about falling,” Natasha assured with a sparkle in her eye that hinted she meant more than what she appeared to. “I’ll be here.”


End file.
